The Geezer Band ♫? ♫? ♫? ♫? ♫? ♫? ♫? ♫? ♫?

 “Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve

Time for bed was what I had in mind.  It was 2:00 AM and I found it necessary to research something on the computer before drifting off into the enchanted land of mirth and merriment that I personally wish my dreams would consist of.  Well, what I really wished to look up was a version of a song that caught my ear just prior to turning the television off.  YouTube serves this need admirably.  Just about any genre of music can be found with numerous examples of most compositions from the last fifty years.  You can listen to original albums cuts, live performances, covers by other artists, and even gag versions of the chosen tunes.  I discovered this about a year ago when I purchased and set up the latest desktop computer I keep. 

The discovery was not of any great consequence.  Certainly it was not on a par with, oh, the apple hitting Newton on his noggin, or Columbus peering through an eyepiece and discovering not India but the New World, or any other breakthrough of actual relevance.  The unearthing undergone actually amounted to just a random meandering on the web for something to do with some free time.  I had discovered an addiction while employed as a teacher which was given face in a foolish, useless game that I unearthed while teaching summer school a few years ago.  The class was a computer based self-paced tutorial that required little or no effort on my part.  The teacher’s computer in this classroom included said mindlessness on the hard drive and it captured me in its clutch’s and has yet to release me.  Actually, I cannot truly claim an addiction in that the very essence of my being (in recovery) tells me to fight the reliance of outside entities to change the manner in which I experience emotions.  I do not battle this infatuation as I am completely content to wallow in the grasp of this evil entity.

Well, dealing with the negative side of this pastime is not the point I make today.  The discovery (you know, the one of no reasonable significance) of music on the same computer as the game proved to be a quite enjoyable diversion.  Listening to one song at a time helped to ensure that carpal tunnel syndrome the game might create was no danger, and I got to remember a softer, crazier time when I  wanted to be a Rock n’ Roll star.

I come from the generation that is responsible for all of the really important music ever written.  Yes, I know you disagree, and would be happy to educate me out of my ignorance.  Well, keep it to yourself…you are all full of male bovine excrement!

I grew up on the Beatles.  Enough said!

Well, there is most assuredly more to the story than that. The times we lived in with the war in Southeast Asia, the burgeoning of Liberation Theology in the black communities of the inner cities, the rise of feminism, the discovery that drugs (well, some of them) could expand your consciousness, and the attainment of the dream of placing a man on a terrestrial body other than Earth have yet to be equaled.  Yes, there are probably many arguments to my point that would suggest narrow-mindedness, lack of a competent education and, perhaps, idiocy or mental deficiency (or might it be deviancy?).  My answer to any of those viewpoints would be to refer those opposing my standpoint to the earlier comment about livestock ordure.

I am the master of all I perceive!  I rule my world, and shall brook no contest in my beliefs!  Just as everyone reading this, as well as the entire population of this planet, is also in charge of their lives.  We live in a society that allows for the belief and adherence to whatever psychological, emotional, and spiritual dogma we choose.  I elect to regard the message of love and understanding expressed in the songs of the Fab Four as unquestionably practical, sensible, and divine.

As stated, I wished to regale readers of a momentous discovery my pitiful self-important ego told me was of great consequence.  I further wished to amuse you with the fantasy in my feeble attempt to describe The Geezer Band, an ensemble of my own construct where, if I had my way, I would play lead, rhythm, and bass guitar as well as all keyboards, the entire horn section of an orchestra, all vocalisms (lead and backup), and a fifty-five piece drum set.  The lifestyle and the fans along with the enormous entourage of sweet young girls in miniskirts peering at me in veneration, adoration, and idolatry complete the self-delusion.

The education which cemented my competence with the written word, coupled with the cultural recollections from which the Bards of the Celtic Druidic ancestry bequeathed me by way of birthright promised a romping good read.  Then, the opening verse of John Lennon’s “Imagine” came wafting from the speakers, and brought me back to earth. 

After that, “Here Comes the Sun” reminded me of the several beautiful women I fell in desperately delightful love with over the years while singing (off key naturally) the wondrous George Harrison lyrics while looking deep in their eyes.

Then Came “In My Life” and I found myself once more lost in the melody and words of the greatest song writing team in history while reflecting on what my personal life experiences had given me.

Each click of the mouse strengthened my grasp on reality and the emotion of what the world actually meant to me; Can't Buy Me Love, Don't Pass Me By, Eleanor Rigby, Every Little Thing, Golden Slumbers, Hey Jude, I'll Cry Instead, Let It Be, Lovely Rita, Michelle, Nowhere Man, Rocky Raccoon, Sun King, You're Going To Lose That Girl, Something, Strawberry Fields Forever, Polythene Pam, The Long And Winding Road, I'm A Loser, The Fool On The Hill, Besame Mucho, and Baby It's You…all listened to with the respective memories from years gone by cascaded in to keep me going…right up to now…5:08 AM.

So what is there for me to do now?  Stay in the real world and leave the fantasy for the short story I am writing for a mystery magazine.  Today is Saturday and there is naught to do but sleep.  Something tells me that the words I put down later today might just be a love story.  They might just be to the object of my current affection.  She doesn’t wear miniskirts, or look at me with false or contrived adulation.  She is just beautiful.  Perhaps when I see her again I can peer deep into her eyes and sing not of the coming of the dawn but offer truer words…

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you
Tomorrow I'll miss you
Remember I'll always be true.

Peace

Yaba Daba Doodle?????????????????

"In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But in practice, there is." - Yogi Berra

As many of you know, I am a lifelong acolyte of a spiritual fraternity that bends knee to the one true gang engaged in the national pastime of the United States: The New York Yankees.  Sometimes referred to as;  "the Bronx Bombers" , "the Bronx Zoo ", "Murderer's Row” ,"the Evil Empire", "the Pinstripes", "Damn Yankees,", and my very own construct - “The Oligarchy of October.  I make this claim – the NY Yankees are the only real baseball team in the business.  Everyone else is just trying to be them.  They have won 27 World Series, 40 American League Pennants, 17 Division titles, and 4 wild card berths (for years when George Steinbrenner could not shut his mouth and let the team do what they do best).

I come by this zeal honestly.  When I was a kid I attended Yankee games and got the chance to meet some of the greats of the team at that time; Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Whitey Ford, and the one true philosopher of the franchise…Yogi Berra.  

“What?  That’s absurd!  He never made sense at all!  All answers to my stance on Yogi, and I stay firm on my belief on his abilities as a philosopher.  His record as a player and a coach stands for itself and does not need repeating.  His words do, however.

The above quote about theory and practice hit a chord with me when I read it this morning.  I have some “issues” going on at the moment which have brought me to that place where I clamor to know, on a philosophical level, what the hell is going on.  The “issues” are of a Basic Needs level and my needs are barely being met at the moment.  I have experienced somewhat of a downturn in my life and desperately seek respite.  I am currently without personal transportation for an inability to pay the monthly vig on the car note (in a town with woefully inadequate public transportation) and my internet was turned off for the same inability to pay.  I haven’t been in real bad straits as I have a friend who willingly picks me up to take me wither and yon.  That is, until he decided to go on vacation with his girlfriend.

I have been stuck in my house with no internet except that which is accessible on my 3G smart phone for a week.  Without an ability to upload and download files, my income as a freelance writer came to a screeching halt.  Well, truth is that it wasn’t traveling very fast in the first place so coming to a stop is not the catastrophe it might seem.  Combined with health, home and happiness issues this has presented to me a rather dismal experience.

So here comes Yogi and the truth about theory and practice.  There are many reasons why a well-educated man can achieve and maintain a comfortable lifestyle, that is, at least in theory.  In practice, it comes down to another thing.  In practice a life is only as successful as the person pursuing it. 

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” This is what American’s claim in the foundational document the Declaration of Independence states.  It is not a legal set of rights in that it had no force behind it to ensure these rights.  But it is a really great idea.

Pursuant to this, I launched an investigation into self for the purpose of attempting to obtain my share of these rights.  I have definite ideas and feelings about our founding fathers and those words are for another place and day.  What I read in this famous quote from history is that these rights I yearn for (especially the happiness part) are given to me by God!  It is not for me to search any further then the conversations I have with the Power Greater then myself in my life.

This calls for the employment of activities directly related to the attainment and retention of God’s will in my life.  But how does this happen?  Quite simply I find it eminently helpful to awaken in the morning and recognize the relationship I have so far developed with this mysterious creature that most of the world believes in and who goes by many names.  The mystery of God is central to the practice of accepting and being certain of His intentions toward my well-being. His presence is not required on a corporeal level, and has most assuredly been absent since I first heard that God loves me at the knee of my Dear Sainted Mother.

So what is there left to do?  If I cannot see Him, and, and I cannot touch Him, I cannot hear Him how do I know he is real?  I have faith.  Faith in the everlasting message I have come to as a result of bad times such as I am experiencing.  This particular downturn of life events is not the first time for me and, perhaps, may not be the last.  Each time there have been occasions occur that challenge explanation which have altered my reality for the better.  This time will be no different.  

Now what or how “better” is achieved is not of my making or design.  Well, usually that is.  Becoming an HIV/AIDS counselor happened as a result of worshiping my God with a group of people ministering to that population.  The experience changed me evermore in that I became intimate with people who I never would have, and, it helped to show me the way to the miracle of recovery.

Becoming a teacher happened at the end of another “dry spot” in my life and it allowed me to associate with children with difficulties in their lives where my education and life experience could be an instrument of God’s will.  I never wanted to be a teacher, but the feeling I received the first time I looked in a young man’s eyes and saw the light bulb of discovery pop on, will stay with me forever.

It was during another of my “recessions” that I opened a book and had the opportunity to read something I had written and got paid for.  That feeling has happened several times since and WILL occur again.  How do I know?  I have faith.

Faith takes practice and is not overly zealous where it comes to theory.  Theories must be proven, and often suffer many setbacks before a positive conclusion.  Faith simply takes practice.  

The best way I can explain it is with an old joke I once heard about two fellows going to a circus. They arrive at their seats only to see a monkey on a shortened version of a high wire sitting at one end behind a wheelbarrow.  One guy turns to the other and says:

“Do you believe that monkey will pick that wheelbarrow up and cross that wire safely?”

“Sure,” the other guy proclaims, “they wouldn’t have it there if he was going to fall!”

Sure enough the trainer blows a whistle and the monkey picks up the wheelbarrow, walks on the line to the other end.  Once there he turns the wheelbarrow around and sits down.

“Now,” the first guy asks his comrade, “do you have faith that the monkey will do it again?”

“Absolutely!”

“Okay then, go sit your ass in the wheelbarrow.”

So what is my point?  I’m just looking for a monkey with a wheelbarrow.

Peace

Creed

Today I find it crucial to explore a system that I have found unease with here of late.  What is my creed?  A quick definition of creed states that it is a statement of belief.  Belief in what is to be determined.

I was sitting at the kitchen table of a dear friend of mine one night discussing philosophy.  Not out of some deep desire to grasp the meaning of life, or to discover any kind of universal truth.  We were not engaged in some epistemological safari into the nether regions of the human psyche.  There was no grand debate occurring on the virtue of the accepted norms of the great society in which we lived and thrived.  We were really not were not trying to do anything special.  She was trying to figure out how to pass a History of Western Philosophy class she was taking at a local junior college, and I was waiting for her to finish the cream gravy I was about to pour generously over the chicken fried steak about to be served.

The instructor she had was the same professor I learned from in my own philosophy classes.  A pretty cool guy with long hair who rode Harley’s, smoked a little dope and, for some reason, felt that the teaching and study of philosophy was his particular calling in life.  I took several classes from him where he mercifully gave me B’s that I probably did not deserve.  

The deal we had proved simple.  She would feed me with artery clogging, cholesterol raising southern food until I could not eat anymore, and I would show her some shortcuts and philosophical secret decoder ring stuff.  Her main desire was for her Grade Point Average not to suffer from her ill-advised choice to take a philosophy class instead of the much simpler sociology class.  My primary yearning came in the quest for a free meal.  Being single, I greatly valued the benefits of a home cooked meal.  She, for some reason unfathomable to me, valued my opinion where it came to issues of post secondary education.  I valued, for very good reason, her abilities with a cast iron skillet and a pot full of collard greens seasoned generously with bacon.

Now, having set the stage for this book, or for the inspiration of this book that is, as the quest for nourishment (intellectual or physical), let me tell you what happened.  Sitting down at the table, we started with the age-old philosophical question of whether or not a tree falling in the middle of the forest makes any sound.  I never really understood what that was all about, but sort of accepted that it would be the best question to choose for my first essay test.  Philosophy professors seem to derive near sexual excitement from red marking essays to the point where it looks as if someone opened an artery on the page.  One thing I learned my eight years earning four advanced degrees in college is that you have to allow the professors to be professors and the students to be students.  If the professor asks a question that some might find futile or stupid, then it is the student’s duty to answer in a futile and stupid manner.  As a result of this ill arrived at opinion on this particular question, I received a “C” on that test.  I never liked being called “average” and, out of irritation or possibly a damaged sense of self-worth, have usually felt it my duty to ridicule the process of asking a seemingly unanswerable question.  Except…that night……unbelievably…I discovered a way to answer that most mundane of inquiries.

My friend has a bell on her countertop that she literally rings when a meal is about to be served.  This is because between her and her partner they have seven kids.  My friend is a quiet woman who never raises her voice.  Loudness is a quite simply a accepted reality where it comes to children and meals.  The kitchen served as a focal point for the gathering of food as well as my friend’s office.  She made the children eat at the table and she sat on a stool at the breakfast bar so that she could spread out her school papers, laptop, telephone charger, massive insulated drink jug, cigarettes, and food.  She would sit quietly and listen to the children tell of their day and fuss at each other while quietly studying, eating, smoking, and solving the major disasters the two teenage girls encountered with their boyfriends.  It seemed next to impossible that this woman would have time for anything extra let alone a 6’4” 350-pound man with a bad attitude about philosophy professors and an empty stomach.  Yet she sat quietly and gracefully ruling her realm with a velvet glove covering an iron fist.  She explained to the children that she and I had business to do, and that they were all to walk to the shopping center down the block and eat pizza for dinner.  She handed the oldest some money and kissed each child as they filed out.  Four of them, that is.  The fourteen-year-old girl dressed like a vampire and the seven-year-old boy in a Yankees hat remained at the table.  The girl was grounded for sneaking out to meet her fellow vampires and getting drunk at the local cemetery.  The boy was allergic to tomato sauce and cheese.  The three of us sat at the table watched my friend serve the meal and plant herself back on her throne.

Between bites, I asked her to read the question again.  She read it right out of the text – If a tree falls in the middle of the forest and no one is there to hear it fall…does it make a sound?  Not caring, but needing to earn my repast, I asked her what she thought.  She stared at me and shrugged her shoulders.  I was the expert, she proclaimed, I should answer my own question.  The girl harrumphed at that and the boy giggled.  Trying not to reveal the fact that all I really wanted was some more cream gravy, I turned to the youngsters and asked what their little wise asses thought.  Vampirella blew bubbles through her drink straw and offered, “Who cares anyway, man, it’s just a freaking tree.”  The surprise that day came from what the boy said…”what made it fall?”

Now I had always thought of this question as some inane exercise the Secret Philosophy Professors Society dreamt up to torture and defile freshman students with.  It never occurred to me…not being your standard run of the mill philosopher…that an answer had to be there.  Why ask a question if there were not an answer?  My ignorance of the reason for taking a philosophy class in your first year of college had nothing to do with providing the instructor with a paycheck.  It was quite simply and, and most eloquently designed to elicit critical thought in emerging minds.  It served as a tool to show them how to think beyond those levels of Maslow’s Hierarchy, and into the realm where true education can occur.  My overweight, over educated ass needed to chill and use some of what I learned.

Thinking about what caused the tree to fall allows for the fact that the tree even exists.  It brings up question of method and means.  Did lightening strike it?  Did a huge bear run into it and bowl it over?  Was it eaten by insects to the point where it could no longer stand?  Or, perhaps was it cut down by a deaf lumberjack? 

But I digress.  I did not begin this book or conceive this book to be a juorney with no destination.  Nor did I desire to discover the a priori / a posteriori epistemological and ontological foundation of human thought, or to better define the quagmire associated with environmental issues and oddities.  What I fancied this piece to become is a definitive tome on what I believe.

Academically and personally, I am literature/history/social studies guy.  I like reading, and some science finds favor in my mind.  I have always been fortunate in possessing a sufficient level of reading comprehension which has proven both rewarding and amusing.  I took philosophy to attempt to answer some questions in my life.  The class taught me nothing that my own intellect, spiritual beliefs, and life experience could not answer.  I do, nonetheless, possess a difficulty with one particular question.  I do not have an easy answer for the question why.

This brings me back to the original quandary about the tree and sounds.  I never answered that question in the first place to anyone’s satisfaction.  I am not about to now.  I leave that to those of greater acumen and incentive such as freshmen philosophy students and their storm trooper professors.  I do realize one thing about the question, however.  If one was to answer the question to their own satisfaction, or the approval of others, then it would be contingent on the fact that they believed the tree had fallen in the first place.  With belief comes faith which just might be the answer to this and all questions, especially the absurd explorations of Junior College level philosophers.

So tell me.  What is it to you?  Could it be a statement of belief, or might it be a necessity of faith.  You choose.

Peace

The Fool of April

Hello world!  It is many a day since I visited this site to enlighten those in need of such aid.  Not since the Feast of the Patron Saint of the land of my ancestors have I sat to intentionally compose some words of wisdom.  The Ides of March have come and gone with not a single knife shoved in any part of my anatomy except, perhaps, the feeling of inadequacy that results from a writer not writing what they love.  As such, I offer today’s harangue.  I have been delving into the field of writing to the exclusion of all other pursuits.  I have busied myself with such activities as joining online companies that hire freelance writers, developing a portfolio presence on the World Wide Web (http://about.me/tlloydreilly), and attempting to write, primarily, articles and essays that could return some funds to this starving artist.

I closed one website and began another.  I have plunged into the social networking that all seem to deem necessary if one wishes to be a recognized author.  I have written some excruciatingly great material only to have three quarters of it sent back as rubbish.  Well not rubbish so much as the standard rhetoric detailing that the work is fine, or well written, but that it does not fit their particular “vision” and they cannot see putting any effort into the work submitted.  My personal response to the “vision” comments would be to tell them to drag their sorry asses to the Eye doctor for a set of glasses.

As my faithful readers of this blog will attest, I am not without a certain level of perspicacity where it comes to the written arts.  I tend to be somewhat pompous about my acumen, but most of you love me and, I believe, love that ostentation.  Even if you do not love my excessive use of large words or alliteration, the fact that you are reading this tells me that you do, in fact, love me.  I am aware that my prose oftentimes requires that a dictionary be kept nearby, and offer no apologies.  In that is another proof to me of the affection that is given me.  You’re still reading, aren’t you?  On the whole, I can say, unequivocally, that I am a fortunate man.

I have complaints in this life - chief among them right now is the absence of a living wage.  “Starving Artist” almost fits the bill, but not quite.  Those who know my rotund butt (well, not as rotund as it once was – weight lost after bariatric surgery creeping towards 170lbs.) can tell you that groceries are going to be in my refrigerator and pantry.  My bills stay in danger of being at the disconnect state, and my truck is about to be repossessed.  These concerns impede my level of creativity, and irritate me to no end.  With my health being decidedly not healthy, the only avenue for revenue is through writing or to live with the axiom which Tennessee Williams character, Blanch Dubois articulated, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Hurdles in life to surpass are simply what one must do along this journey we all seem to find ourselves on.  Overemphasizing the negative denies us the ability to enjoy the true succor we all receive in one form or another.  I attribute my continued existence on the grace and mercy of a loving and merciful God.  Someone else might have a different name for it but, they aren’t writing this blog post…I am.

In my search for the just desserts of my chosen trade, I have come across many of the less savory parts of the business of writing, and have suffered the indignity of thinking and announcing that I have been engaged to be a full time writer only to find out that children working in factories in China would be making more for less work then would be required for any of these positions.  While this would seem disheartening to most, and I will admit to some depression over it, the thing to do is never give up.  Winston Churchill said this during WWII and it fits this and any situation where quitting would seem easier than to trudge over obstacles to find success.

I heard someone tell me once that if you are not working at what you love, then you need to get a different job.  In that light, I have found that there is an entire section of the writing for dollars cosmos that can and does pay appropriately for those who seek it.  Short Fiction writing can earn one a living wage, and it is what I love most to write.  Pursuant to that, I have put my efforts into that and will continue.  I have posted some short fiction for your reading pleasure on this blog, but will be increasing my word count significantly.  To get a taste of this, which contains many less big words then I spew on this blog, you can find it here:

http://shop.authorstand.com/search.aspx?searchTerms=&searchGenre=&searchAuthor=T.+Lloyd+Reilly

It felt good to write this post today.  I apologize to those who have a soft part for my ramblings here, and will try to do better.  I love all of you and will leave you with an old Irish Sentiment:

“May the Lord keep you in his hand and never close his fist too tight.”

Peace

Heard it in a Love Song

Waking up a few minutes before the alarm clock that morning, he patiently waited for the pain to stop.  He had slept the night through and the pain is what woke him up.  After many years of insomnia and restlessness, the old man just wanted to enjoy the fact that he could sleep a full night.  His sides hurt when he lay on them too long.  His back stiffened up when he lay on it, and his breathing became labored and forced when he attempted to sleep on his ample stomach.  That morning the daily struggle had an intensity to it that nearly made him weep.

            His dreams had been wonderful that night.  Love and friendships in the real world always seemed so much better in the Land of Nod.  He could spend time with this girl or that girl and soak up the wonder of beauty and love.  His buddies and he would always have kick-ass times chasing women and riding motorcycles.  He could see the end of the rainbow in his dreams, he could actually find the pot of gold sitting there right next to the leprechaun that squabbled and fussed with him before losing the treasure to the usurper from the realm of the real.  Vast adventures were commonplace when he accomplished Rapid Eye Movement in the midst of his slumber.

            Given that, the real pain he felt that morning, and any morning for that matter, came when the physical pain obliterated the nostalgia of the night’s sub cranial ambrosia.  Thinking that, he laughed, through the anguish of his physical condition, at the freaking wordiness of the thought.  How had it happened that he used that kind of vocabulary in his everyday thought and action?  Did he not come from a simple existence where words simply conveyed information?  He continued to ruminate on this while the throbbing subsided.  It worked every morning.  He would simply think about something else besides the pain until the pain condensed itself to an acceptable level.  Try as he might, that morning his venture into subliminal deception would not work. The pain increased, as he lay motionless.  The day before had seen him helping a friend to move.  Lifting the furniture and boxes, against doctors’ orders, created this morning’s angst.  He had not been able to turn his friend down.  He began loathing the pain as the tears began.  Unable to prevent the weeping, he let it happen.  He did not regret the action of helping his friend, but he did resent his body for its weakness and betrayal. 

            Momentary respite when the alarm went off and the ridiculous noise of the morning deejays blasted him out of his ruminations.  The volume blared louder than usual.  He remembered that he had turned it up to listen to music the night before while he sat at his desk and worked.  The nonsense interrupted his anguish temporarily, and the song that followed ended it.  An old song from a simpler time drifted into his ears from an old band of a country nature. Back in the day, as the kids say, this band was a part of a musical genre call “Country Rock.”  The album this song came off had always been on his list of “Desert Island” records.  That is, if you found yourself on a deserted island with no hope of rescue, what five albums would you want to have with you, but it could only be just five.  Those records would be the only music you would ever listen to for the rest of your life.

            Listening to the song blasting out of the radio reminded him of the reason this particular group of ballads would be with him for eternity.  Her name was Angel.  Back in the miracle days, she had captured his entire being.  Long black hair and a face of Semitic demeanor still came to him every day.  She drifted into his life when he rode with the Club.  Not a period that elicited many good thoughts.  His past was the reason he hurt so much today.  He rode with a motorcycle gang that lived a brutal and desperate lifestyle.  Many a night saw him in some emergency room being patched back together after a battle in some saloon or grog shop.  Fast and mean was the order of the day, and he embraced that way of life with vehemence and devotion to the Code.  The Code being that the patch on the back of his cutoff jean coat meant everything and the rest of life proved inconsequential to the honoring of his oath to the Code.  His fidelity to that convention always had him hurt or sore.  One night, sitting in a rock club listening to this very song, he met her.  She walked across the dance floor and stood next to him, rubbing her ample bosom against his arm.  She just smiled, and told him that she wanted to buy him a beer.

At first, it seemed as if she was just another distraction, just something to fill the time between this thing and the next.  Women had always just been a way to kill time while he waited for the next task the club set him to.  He had a definite skill at some things of an administrative nature, and an anger grown from abuse as a child.  The club used him to direct some of the harsher parts of their business.  Not what you could call a Fortune 500 type of institution, the club nevertheless prospered from the delivery of service and materials related to human vice.  Some might call it organized crime, but they just thought of it as entrepreneurship.  That is, after the old man told them what the word “entrepreneurship” meant.  

The girl never once acted right.  At least, that is, right by the old man’s standards.  “Acting right” meant shutting her mouth and doing what she was told.  A simple task, he thought, but one she never once delivered.  He brought her home on his bike that night, and she slept on the couch.  When he told her she would have to pay her way, she went to the kitchen and came back to the couch with a butcher knife.  Drunk and high as he was that night, the old man simply went to bed.

The next morning he woke to the smell of coffee, eggs, and bacon.  She stood in the kitchen wearing a tube top and a pair of panties.  She smiled and told him to sit down.  As she set a cup of coffee in front of him, she kissed his forehead and went about cooking the rest of the meal.  After, she told him to join her in the shower.  Another disappointment in that the only thing they did was wash.  As soon as she finished, she toweled off, put on one of his t-shirt, and went about collecting his laundry and cleaning the house.  He returned to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.  While he sat there, she came in and taking him by the hand, led him to a chair under the tree in the backyard.  She began brushing his elbow length hair.  She told him that fresh air would help his hair to dry.  It felt like heaven.

That is how, ultimately, he changed.  This strange girl moved in and gradually eased him out of the lifestyle of an outlaw biker.  Not an easy task, but she patiently waited while he slowly left the lifestyle behind.  It happened over a period of time.  Several times, he’d come home beat to hell and in need of a doctor.  He refused the emergency room, and she taught herself how to minister to his injuries. One time, he came home with a bullet in him that required a trip to the hospital.  She sat with him in intensive care, and when he came home, she went to the clubhouse to inform the other members of his tribe that the old man was retired.  She lay his patch down, respectfully, and announced that if any of them came to see the old man, they would die.  She never described how that might happen, but the hardened bikers in the club believed her for some reason.  They never tried to see him again.

He lay in bed laughing to himself as he thought of what the scene might have looked like.  Every bit of 5’0” the girl never spoke a mean word.  To think that his compadres would be warned off by this slip of a girl made him laugh at the stupidity of the lifestyle, and the stupidity of being a part of such insanity. When he healed enough to go back to work, she brought him an application to drive a truck for a rock quarry.  He looked at it, and at the look in her eyes, and filled it out. 

He got the job, and never looked back. His life got simpler, but not much less dangerous.  He wrecked his bike that next spring and had to lay up in a cast for near half a year.  Losing his job made her have to go out to work.  She went to work in a nursing home, and then to school to be a Registered Nurse.  He remembered the day she got her nursing license; she took him home and made love to him for the first time.  She told him to go back to school and he did. He became a schoolteacher, and loved every minute of the twenty-five years he taught.  He taught reading, and astronomy.  When he retired, his students gave him a plaque for being the kindest most loving teacher in the universe.  Certainly this was a far cry from the angry, violent, man that rode motorcycles too fast, and treated women as if they were property.  

          

She told him to marry her, and he did.  She told him to get her pregnant, and he did.  She told him to love her no matter what, and he did.  She told him many things, and he did them all. 

The reverie worked.  He slowly began to feel better.  He arose from his bed and looked out the window at the rising sun.  It would be a good day to sit under the tree.  She would like that.  He had to make her some breakfast first.  He would wait to brush her hair until they got outside.  She liked the fresh air.

Póg mo thóin is Éireannach mé!

“Oh but don’t you know? Every Irishman is his own King!” The Fighting O'Flynn (Universal-Internatlanal), 1949 

There is an event that I wish to regale you with, a tale of the greatest great boon to humanity – that of being proudly able to announce that I am a true representative of the greatest species in history…the Irish. Equally adroit with a saber, a rapier, a shillelagh, or a kiss, the Irish have a special place in our world. On this, the day after the supposed feast of St Patrick I find it apropos to dispel the rumors that abound each March 17th. I am, as is said, “As Irish as Paddy’s Pig.” I am of proud Irish-American heritage with a rich family history which, I am also proud to say, I am most aware of and revel in.

 My family history can be positively traced back to the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 where the progenitor of my clan (the Ó Raghallaigh ) gave his life standing shoulder to shoulder with the great Ard Rí na hÉireann, Brian Bóruma mac Cennétig (Brian Boru). Prior to that, the plot thickens and gets sketchy with a mixture of fact girdled with legend. Much of this period is not certain except in this Irishman’s heart. My family’s founding dates to the reign of Conn Cétchathach (Conn of the Hundred Battles) circa 116-161 AD. 

 This coincides with the rule of Marcus Aurelius of Rome. The Roman’s never conquered Ireland and it has been said that this was due to a perception that there was no economic value to Éirinn. The prevaricator in me with Bard like talents prefers to think that the Roman’s had better sense then to mess with Ireland. They had no desire to have their posterior end’s booted for the first time in history. It must have been similar to the sentiment the English had on 9 July 1921(yes you are correct; I am not a great fan of the English).

 Having given my bona fides on the topic, I would like to expand on what it is to be Irish and how annoying it is to go to certain restaurants every March 17th and be offered Corned Beef and Cabbage (an American construct) to be washed down with perfectly good beer that has suffered the indignity of being doused with green food dye. A travesty if ever there was one. Envisioned are my progenitors mimicking gyroscopes within the confines of their eternal resting places. 

Let us begin with the saint the day is named for…Patrick (or more correctly Pádraig). A historical figure of English or Scottish descent he was captured by Irish brigand/pirates and forced to herd sheep for six years. While sitting on a hillside watching the herd, he had a vision that there was a different life for him. He stood up, threw down his shepherd accoutrements and walked 200 miles where he found a ship that got him out of Ireland. He came back a number of years later with the divine purpose (again from a vision) to convert Ireland from paganism to Christianity. He, as the legend states, drove the snakes from Ireland. In fact, any snakes in Ireland had already disappeared during the Ice Age; (http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/ReptilesAmphibians/NewsEvents
/irelandsnakes.cfm)

 "One of the famous legends, of course, is that Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland," says Irish historian Harold Calvert. "The legend about the driving of the snakes may, in fact, really symbolize the driving out of evil," 

There is nothing in any literature that legitimatizes the practice of getting commode hugging drunk on his feast day. St. Patrick's Day in Ireland has almost always been a principally religious festival. Until the 1970s, pubs were required by law to close on March 17. Given this fact, I believe the sainted gentleman himself would have preferred it if all went to church and praised God instead of trying to glorify a simple priest for doing what his faith told him to do. That faith was humble and eloquent, as stated in his second prayer: 

Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me, 
Christ before me,
Christ beside me, 
Christ to win me, 
Christ to comfort and restore me, 
Christ beneath me, 
Christ above me, 
Christ in quiet, 
Christ in danger, 
Christ in hearts of all that love me, 
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger

So much of what we know about the Feast of St. Pádraig is shrouded in folklore and mystery. We are a race that holds their Seanchaí in special esteem. The rich history of the Emerald Isle is much more a thing of beauty then the obligatory display of drunkenness and sloth that the feast has become. The vision of Patrick standing on a hill beside a fire, in defiance of a pagan king’s command speaks to me more than the Chicago River running green. The legend that tells of that same pagan king converting to Christianity is a lesson in perseverance, humility, and hope. I like that Patrick taught about Christ and not emerald barley and hops, or the liquid foundation of John Jameson’s family legacy.

Curse me for an anarchist. Berate the traitorous ramblings of a man who no longer drinks of the grain. Accuse me of vile disrespect for my ancestors. Rebuke me for the intolerance I display. Reprimand me for killing then spirit of the day. But for God and Pádraig’s sake, love me because I am Irish! I normally close with a wish for peace for all my readers, today I will leave you with a blessing:

  “Go gcoinní Dia i mbois a láimhe thú, agus nár dhúna sé a dhorn go teann choíche.”